


A Bleeding Lamb Doesn’t Smile On Christmas Friday

by Catsintheattic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Gen, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Radiation Sickness, Reality Loss, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsintheattic/pseuds/Catsintheattic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Draco tries hard to make everything right and be the good reformed Death Eater everyone wants him to be. But no one will acknowledge his efforts. Potter’s ignorance is the last drop, and then everything spins out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bleeding Lamb Doesn’t Smile On Christmas Friday

**How to Summon Something Sweet**

The oxygen is gone from the conference room, and Draco’s arse hurts from sitting for what adds up to two-and-a-half hours already. 

Draco works in the newly created Use of Muggle Artefacts Office, supervised by Arthur Weasley. His desk is overflowing with shiny junk and fading parchments. He catalogues Muggle inventions and writes reports on how they improve Muggle life. Three years post-war, his job is completely irrelevant, a mere re-education project. Didn’t Potter look at Draco somewhat fishy when he appraised the benefits of smart phones in the last department meeting? Even Draco gets how they might be useful to Muggles, ex-Death Eater or not.

Across the huge table, Potter licks a few sugar crystals from his index finger. He obviously likes the new conference cookies.

Draco’s office is so tiny that he doesn’t ever need to summon a book when he wants it – they’re all in perfect reach. Yet he can’t get this one spell out of his mind. He thinks of it whenever he sees Auror Potter walking through the corridors, or – even better – jumping off his broom, which accentuates Potter’s pert arse under a delicious stretch of fabric. Draco says it under his breath, even though he knows it’s useless. It doesn’t work on people. Besides, it’s ridiculous to want someone so desperately, with such need and helpless fury. 

Draco wandlessly summons the last of the cookies from under Potter’s hand and dips it into the foamed milk of the latest creation of Wizards’ Finest Coffee Delivery. The cookie crumples in his mouth, an explosion of sweet crumbs and caramel. Draco looks at Potter, licks his lips, and smirks. He hopes it’s a nice smirk, as nice as he can do. A service wizard fills up the cookie plate with a swish of his wand. Potter cocks an eyebrow. _Accio_ , Draco thinks, _Accio Potter_. He doesn’t mind that the meeting is scheduled for another four hours.

 

**Hitting the Mark**

It’s duelling practice time at the Ministry. Kingsley Shacklebolt himself decided that all personnel should be trained in self-defence. And so, every second Saturday of the month, they all Apparate to a Muggle-forgotten meadow in the middle of Scotland to throw hexes at their randomly assigned partners. Potter claims it’s not enough, but for Draco, who learned duelling etiquette from his father even before he went to Hogwarts, it’s more than enough. One perfectly peaceful, solitary Saturday wasted in the company of his so-called colleagues. People who don’t care if he lives or dies, and who will never have his back in a fight. 

Today is the worst since Draco has been matched with Potter. Everybody is probably green with envy but Draco could have done without the constant reminder that fighting against Potter has always brought him to his knees.

A Bat-Bogey Hex is proof that Potter is still childish and immature. Now Draco is busy fighting the slimy bats coming out of his nose. They aren’t many – thanks to his strictly kept personal hygiene – but those that manifest are huge, flopping around his face and obscuring his vision. The bats’ wings beat loudly against his ears. 

Potter laughs, close enough that Draco can hear him over the din, and it only fuels his anger.

“You’ve got to fight them, Malfoy!” And then, Potter’s hand is on Draco’s arm, offering guidance. Draco wants to shake him off but the bats are making him dizzy and disoriented. So he focuses on Potter’s touch, and grudgingly allows Potter to steady him.

“You can do it,” Potter says, and Draco snorts. Of course he can. He aims his wand towards the greatest noise and utters a counter spell.

“Not bad.” Potter grins. “But you use a lot of extra room for the first part of your wand movement. That could give you trouble in a tight place.”

Draco swallows. His father told him the exact same thing, that his mannerisms wouldn’t do him any good in combat.

Potter hesitates. “Would you like to see how I do it?”

Draco nods. His throat is still tight. Now Potter will rub it in how he is the rising star and Draco is the one fallen from grace. 

But all Potter does is perform the motion and then compares his with Draco’s. “See? If you twist your wrist just so, you can keep your elbow closer to your body.”

It’s obvious. And when Draco mimics Potters movement, it’s even easier than his old technique. 

Potter’s face splits into a grin. “You got it. Shall we?”

And they are off again, throwing hexes, but somehow Draco breathes a little lighter whenever he aims.

For the next two hours, they work hard. Every now and then, they stop to examine their techniques. Potter’s duelling skills are wicked, but he is a good sport, willing to share what he knows. He is observant, and his suggestions are almost always an improvement. Draco remembers Potter secretly teaching a whole bunch of kids Defence Against the Dark Arts under Umbridge’s nose. 

Time flies and when the training session is called to an end, Draco is surprised to realise how much he’s been enjoying himself – and Potter’s company. They don their cloaks, put away their wands, and Draco finds his gaze lingering on Potter’s hand, the one that touched his arm.

“Thank you,” he says, holding out his hand for Potter to shake it.

Potter does and Draco feels a spark of warmth coursing from Potter’s fingers into the skin of his palm. He almost doesn’t want to let go.

“You know you throw a mean Bat-Bogey Hex, right?”

Potter’s smile is warm and intoxicating. “Sure do,” he says. “After all, I learned from the best. It’s Ginny’s specialty.”

And just like that, Potter strips the warmth from Draco and leaves him with a frozen grin on his face. He nods mechanically and mumbles a goodbye, and Potter nods politely and Disapparates, most likely to meet the girl whose mere mention ignited that kind of smile.

Draco wraps the cloak tighter around his shoulders, Potter’s smile still a vivid phantom before his eyes. It’s clueless and without a care in the world, as only Potter’s smile can be. There is no hex strong enough to wipe it away or turn it on when Potter looks at Draco. 

 

**Theory and Practice**

This is how it should go. They duel for practice and Draco is good at it. Not because he’s lucky but because he really has a knack for finding Potter’s weak spots, after watching him through years of school and months of meetings. And also because Potter wants him to be brilliant. Draco uses all the tricks Potter showed him, keeps his elbows tucked in and lets go off the usual self-restraint of the reformed Death Eater he presents to everyone at the office. He allows himself to give his best and hit his mark, unafraid of the consequences. The flow carries them forward; attack, defence and counter-attack following each other in an effortless pattern of spells and hexes. Afterwards, they are both sweaty, hair clinging to their temples but Potter claps him on the back and tells Draco that he will get his revenge next month.

***

This is how it actually goes. They get partnered again for practice and Draco is delighted to meet Potter in friendly competition. He really has a knack for finding Potter’s weak spots and uses all the tricks Potter showed him. Draco enjoys himself, though Potter is a lot more formal this time. They both duel relentlessly, and Potter drives himself as hard as he does Draco. Draco is letting go of his usual self-restraint. The flow carries him forward; attack, defence and counter-attack following each other in an effortless pattern of spells and hexes. Until Potter is dangling in the air upside-down and has to use _Liberacorpus_ to get back onto his feet.

“I learned that one from my father,” Draco says, and he can’t suppress the grin that spreads over his face. When he’d successfully cast the spell for the first time, all of Mother’s candles had been floating above the dinner table with their flames pointing downwards.

Potter’s lips curl away from his teeth, his face contorted into a grimace of disgust. “Yeah,” he snarls, “I imagine you did. He demonstrated his idea of how to use _Levicorpus_ at the World Cup, didn’t he?”

Too late, Draco remembers that Potter’s newest case is about the murder of three Muggle parents who accompanied their children to Diagon Alley. One of the mothers was found suspended by the ankles; her death must have been excruciating, drawn out for days. 

Potter Disapparates without waiting for the bell to end their training session. Draco stands, his sweaty shirt clinging to his back, and wishes there was a spell to undo the past. 

 

**The Last Drop**

Draco has all he needs at hand. The necessary ingredients. A standard size cauldron made of pewter. Beakers, graduated cylinder, standard test tube and measuring cup, all in the correct sizes. A dropper and a stirring rod. A knife. 

Textbook-sure about the procedure, he starts by cutting the Sopophorus bean. It’s fresh and juicy. He pours water into the beaker, adds five ounces of African sea salt and sets the beaker aside, careful not to disturb the contents.

Five minutes to wait. Five minutes to contemplate Potter’s twisted sense of justice. Still on the case of the Muggle murders, Potter’s Auror team had been searching the manor, just because Draco’s parents are still on the black-list. Draco received a Floo call from his mother at five in the morning. They will always be pariahs. There is no way to wipe the record clean.

Draco pours all the water into the cauldron. With one hand he measures forty fluid ounces of essence of wormwood. With his other, he slightly tilts the cauldron to the left and pours ten drops into the mixture of water and salt. He tips the cauldron to the right, then he repeats the process with the rest of the wormwood essence.

Afterwards, his hands are shaking. The whole office gossiped about Narcissa Malfoy in her nightgown. How could Potter allow things to get so out of hand?

Cutting the Valerian roots into small squares takes him longer than expected. But he can’t rush it, can’t rush any of his steps. Everything has to be perfect. He prepares another beaker with water and places the pieces inside.

Five more minutes to wait. Until the unfortunate murders, everything had been going so well with Potter. Draco had not just imagined that smile on Potter’s face. They had more than fun on their first duelling practice. They had a connection. And even with everything against him, even with Potter having a girlfriend, there might have been a chance for Draco to offer something to Potter that Ginny Weasley couldn’t give him. An alliance with one of the oldest of the wizarding families, close to the roots of their society. A friendly challenge and a chase. The lean hardness of a male body. Draco had seen Potter looking at him in the conference room. He knows that Potter had not been averse to Draco’s subtle hints.

That chance is gone. Now Draco can do nothing but make Potter see reason. Things have to change for his family. And if he fails them, this potion will be his back-up plan for revenge. 

He cleans his hands of the Valerian juice. They are shaking again. It doesn’t matter as long as he doesn’t mess up the potion. Its colour is perfect, a smooth blackcurrant hue. 

He pours the juice of the Sopophorus bean into the cauldron, then adds seven drops of the Valerian infusion. He takes the rod and begins stirring, ten times clockwise. He makes sure to do it slowly and carefully, staying close to the side of the cauldron instead of fumbling around in the middle. Such things matter and Draco has learned from the best. Abraxas Malfoy was a widely known and highly esteemed potion maker, and his portrait has taught Draco since he was six years old.

After the tenth turn of the stirring rod, the potion’s colour is a light shade of lilac. Draco changes direction, keeping a rhythm so that every round takes him about two and a half seconds. This is the part he messed up in Slughorn’s class. He wanted to win the Felix felicis so badly and eagerness ruined his focus. He has learned since then, and not just from the bitterness of that year. He can keep his focus now, no matter how much pressure or taunting he has to suffer.

Finally, the potion is clear as water and he adds the seven square pieces of Valerian root. After ten more rounds of stirring, still counter-clockwise, he adds fifty ounces of powdered root of asphodel. He switches hands, steadying the cauldron with his right and stirring with his left. Ten times counter-clockwise and eight times clockwise.

For the next two and a half minutes he holds his breath. There is still so much to do, and he doesn’t even know how to make his half-formed plan work. He must keep in mind the potion is only a back-up. Maybe there will be no need for revenge. He still has to try and talk to Potter first. But it won’t be easy. Potter will always suspect him and his parents whenever there is the slightest hint of Death Eater activity, disregarding every bit of trust Draco has worked so hard to gain. They can never be more than mere acquaintances.

He adds the final piece of Valerian root into the clear depths of the cauldron. It sinks slowly, swirls around in lazy tumbles, leaving a trail of rose-coloured juice. The colour spreads, turning the potion a pale pink, and Draco knows that it is ready. 

He ladles the fluid carefully into a bottle, puts on a stopper and wipes the excess off. He carefully wraps the bottle up in a piece of cloth and buries it deep in his closet. Knowing it’s there will make all the difference when he approaches Potter. And if he succeeds, he won’t need it any more.

But just in case all other options fail, the Draught of Living Death will be the last drink Potter ever tastes. Sleep so deep everyone will believe him to be dead. They will mourn him and bury his body. And then he will be Draco’s for the taking. If Draco can’t have Potter’s trust, at least he will have Potter’s silent body. If Potter, with his girlfriend and his bunch of mates and arse-lickers, can’t accept Draco’s offer of friendship and more, he will have to suffer Draco’s want. He will serve Draco, asleep and silenced.

Draco has been tested so many times since the war ended. He had to demonstrate his magical abilities, had to prove how much he’s been reformed, had to show his loyalty to the new rules. Now it’s Potter’s turn to be tested. Draco will approach him, ask nicely. And if Potter knew the importance of his answer, he might come around. But he doesn’t, and Draco won’t tell.

After all, what would be the significance of such a test?

 

**A Lot to Stomach**

Draco removes the big canvas cover and regards his latest project. About two months ago Arthur Weasley asked him to investigate a broken Muggle machine, retrieved from one of those places of healing the Muggles call a ‘hospital’, even though the ‘doctors’ cut up their patients and damage them further instead of doing what a proper Healer would do. Weasley claimed the Muggle machine had been valuable once, and that in fact the Muggles had been reluctant to part with it. Only a Confundus charm held by Weasley and Draco together had made the hospital head give up the device.

So far, Draco still doesn’t know its function. He has been able to retrieve a blue substance from one of the smaller metal boxes inside the machine. It radiates in the darkness, and everyone in the office exclaimed how pretty it was. Draco has been working on it with various potions and spells, but to no avail. 

He takes the box with the unknown substance and opens his lab book to note down the next procedure. He reaches for a quill when a twist of his stomach has him bending over and coughing violently into the back of his hand. It comes away bloody. Draco stares at the mess for a few moments before he wipes it away with a piece of cloth. It’s getting worse. 

The pain in his stomach has been increasing for weeks. Draco has never really recovered from the sickness that befell him a few weeks back. But he can’t be seen slouching off, and so he drags his sorry carcass into the office day after day, ignoring the headaches and the fever. If he spits up his meagre lunch into his waste paper basket every day, at least there’s no one to bear witness. He Vanishes the mess and struggles on. 

This week he finally had a few days of relief and hoped the illness was gone. But no such luck. The pain is back, stronger than ever, and not just in his stomach. It’s everywhere. It clings to his very bones, and makes him so nauseous that he can’t even think about eating. Even Weasley has remarked on how thin Draco has become, and that certainly doesn’t happen every day.

Draco has been trying to talk to Potter for weeks, but apart from the office meetings they never seem to be in the same room at the same time, let alone just the two of them. And so Draco lurks and works and hopes for a chance to finally talk to Potter. Potter’s investigation hasn’t been going anywhere, the house arrest imposed on former Death Eaters still hasn’t been lifted, and Draco’s parents are not to leave the Manor. These days though, Draco is glad that he doesn’t have to meet his mother face-to-face. She would take one look at him and demand that he see a Healer. 

But it’s just a bad case of flu and a stomach bug, and Draco can’t afford to take days off. He needs a break-through with his project much more than he needs to see a Healer. If he has something important to report in the next meeting, Potter may finally find the time to talk to him. 

Another wave of pain hits him, and this time it’s strong enough to dot his vision black. Draco struggles to his feet. The room is revolving around him, and he clings to the table for support. He feels as though his throat is swelling from the inside, and he can’t breathe properly, can’t suck enough air into his lungs. He lurches for the door to call for help, but the blackness takes over his vision completely. The last thing he feels is the impact of his body crashing to the floor.

***

When he comes to, he is lying in a bed in an unknown room. Everything is white, and there is a woman sitting in a chair beside his bed.

“Mr Malfoy? You gave us quite the scare,” she says. Before he can begin to ask questions, she continues. “You’re at St Mungo’s, on the Third Floor.”

“Potion and Plant Poisoning? I didn’t take anything.” He struggles to sit up, and is surprised how little strength she needs to push him back onto the cushions.

“But you’ve been poisoned,” she says. “Healer Granger will explain everything to you in a minute.”

And there she is in the doorway, a mess of hair and in the lime green robes of a Healer. “Thank you,” Granger tells the mediwitch, “I’ll take it from here.” The mediwitch stands and leaves, and Granger steps to the side of Draco’s bed.

“You’re suffering from radiation sickness, Malfoy. It’s a disease caused by exposure to radioactive material. In your case, the probe of caesium chloride you were investigating.”

Draco stares at her, not sure if he can trust his ears. “The blue substance? From that crappy Muggle machine? That’s causing all of this?”

“It was taken from an apparatus used for radiation therapy. That substance shouldn’t have been taken out of the hospital, let alone been given to a wizard.”

Draco bristles. “And why not? Are Muggles so much better at handling its danger than wizards?”

“In fact yes, they are. First, they know how to protect themselves from the radiation. And second, they don’t react as fast to it. Our magic enhances the effects of the radiation. Which is why you showed all the symptoms of prolonged radiation sickness. Including tissue damage and bone cancer.”

That explains his vomiting of blood and the bone-deep pain. Granger’s face is all seriousness, her bushy eyebrows drawn together. Draco has never heard of cancer, but it can’t be good.

“It means the cells of your bones are damaged. They grow too fast and destroy the natural function of your bones. You must have been in horrible pain for the last few weeks. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d had to take strong pain medication to stay functional.”

Her eyes are unreadable, and he only swallows and nods. The tiny movement makes him dizzy, and he hasn’t even tried to sit up again. “I didn’t know …”

“No,” she says, “you didn’t. And neither did Arthur Weasley.”

“What … what, now? This cancer-thing is treatable, right?”

“In Muggles, it’s not. At least not forever, since it’s extremely difficult to catch all of the sick cells. You’re lucky, Malfoy, that we have Skele-Gro. We’ll Vanish groups of your bones and then re-grow them, and treat you whole body like that until all of your bones are new.”

“No sick cells left over.”

Granger nods and hands him the forms to sign. “None. We have to do it quickly though, no breaks in between, to prevent the damaged cells from infecting the new, healthy ones.”

She doesn’t mention it, but he knows the pain will be worse than what he’s been through so far.

***

They’ve been at it for five days now. They started with his arms and hands, his legs and feet, then moved towards the more delicate areas. They re-grew his ribs one by one to keep his lungs from collapsing. His spine alone took two days of healing while he lay Petrified from head to toe to prevent any sudden movement from damaging his spinal cord.

More than anything, he wishes for someone to be with him, help him pass the time and forget the pain. But who would come to visit Draco Malfoy? Not his boss, who is the reason why Draco is here in the first place. Not his colleagues, who can’t deal with anything more challenging than a flobberworm. Not Pansy, who fled the country after the war instead of facing all the retribution. Not Mother, who is probably sitting in the Manor and worrying herself sick because no one thought to tell her what’s going on and why she can’t reach Draco.

But when the door creaks open, it’s not Granger with her wand and another dose of the dreadful potion. It’s Potter, red-faced and unable to look at Draco properly. He places a box of Dribble’s Nibbly Nougat Nips on Draco’s bedside table, then keeps dragging his hands through his hair until it stands up in every direction.

“Hi, Malfoy.”

Draco stares at the box of chocolates. Dagobert Dribble only recently reopened his chocolate shop after the war had cost him two daughters and a son.

“Potter. Those ... those are my favourites.”

Potter’s tightly drawn shoulders relax a fraction. “I know. The first thing you polish off in every meeting.”

“Thank you—“A sudden burst of pain cuts Draco off. 

Potter instantly tenses again. “Skele-gro, eh? Hurts like a bitch.”

“Sure does,” Draco pushes out between his teeth. “Why are you here?” he asks when he can finally breathe again without screaming.

“I asked Hermione about the details of what caused your illness and she told me. The whole department is in uproar because no one thought of security measures.”

“Will it have consequences for my boss?”

Harry’s face closes off. “No. This isn’t about Arthur. This is about hasty procedures and a lack of precaution.”

Draco decides to skip the accusations that are on the tip of his tongue and focus on the important thing: use Potter’s obvious discomfort to push him into helping Draco’s family. 

“Has anyone informed my parents? As far as I know, they’re still under house arrest. I haven’t Floo-called them since I was admitted.”

“I talked to your mother, Malfoy. She sends her regards. And this.” Potter hands Draco a small envelope. It is addressed to _My son Draco_ in Mother’s generous handwriting. 

“About my parents ...” 

Potter’s eyes narrow. “What about them?”

“Could you lift the house arrest? They haven’t done anything. They can’t even visit me here.”

“The investigation is not closed yet. I can’t make an exception for your parents.” 

Draco takes a deep breath and opens his mouth to speak, but Potter silences him with a raised hand. 

“And don’t ask for any favours because of your accident. These things aren’t related.”

“So it’s fair to let me rot here all alone because you can’t find your suspects?”

Before Potter has a chance to answer, the door opens to reveal Granger. “Oh, hi, Harry. Malfoy, it’s time.” And isn’t that convenient for Potter?

Potter nods. “I’ll leave you to it then. Bye, Malfoy. Get well soon.”

Draco watches him go and then turns his full attention to Granger. “It’s my head now, right? How long will it take?”

“Three more days. The bone structure isn’t as delicate as your spine, but we don’t want to risk brain damage. We will work the cranium in layers and then do your face on the last day. Are you ready?”

“I want to be done.” Draco lets out a long breath and forces himself to relax against the pillows. “Get on with it.”

Granger raises her wand. “Petrificus totalus!”

***

Three days later, Draco opens his mother’s letter only to discover that his father has been admitted to St Mungo’s with all the bones gone from his wand arm. Apparently, he Apparated to the Ministry at eight in the morning, inebriated and demanding to know what happened to his only son and heir. The Auror who Vanished the bones in Father’s arm while arresting him claimed that he didn’t know Lucius Malfoy’s right to carry a wand had been restored months ago. Said it had been more thorough than a simple _Expelliarmus_.

Draco tries to visit his father on the fourth floor, but is sent away like a criminal. Or like the son of a recidivistic criminal. He is neither, and no one cares.

When his colleagues come to visit with cheap chocolate and a bunch of even cheaper flowers, Draco claims tiredness to prevent them from gossiping right at his bedside. On the inside, he is fuming. Of course they have to see for themselves how he deals with the fact that his father has been ridiculed and attacked under the pretence of upholding the law. 

And not a word from Potter. No apology, no explanation, not even a note to show that he heard.

When Granger signs Draco’s release papers, the mediwitch is delighted to receive his small collection of chocolate and flowers. The Dribble’s Nibbly Nougat Nips he takes home to his London flat. The box is still untouched.

It’s a warm evening, and he walks into the blind alley behind his residence, where the rats chase other vermin in the gutter and the pavement is never clean. Walking on his newly healed legs is still painful, but he continues until he reaches the very end of the street, where crippled houses lean against each other like ingrown teeth on a hag. The air in the narrow alley is stifling, and the stench makes it hard to breathe. He opens the box and pours its content onto the cobblestones. Then he lifts his foot and mashes every single one of the delicate sweets. A rat scurries forward to catch the treats, and Draco crushes its head with a well-aimed kick. Nougat and blood colour the stones a rusty brown. Draco imagines Potter, helpless and writhing in pain under his boots, and he stomps down even harder, ignoring the pain that thrums through his feet and legs. 

Tomorrow, he has to go back to work and pretend that everything is all right, that he won’t act to defend his parents against the insults and attacks, that he won’t defend himself against the incompetence of his boss and colleagues. Worst of all, he has to face Potter, who doesn’t give a rat’s arse. Draco will grin and bear it. There are more than enough reasons to make Potter bleed. There are more than enough ways as well.

 

**Take It All**

Ginny Weasley is pretty. Prettier at least than Draco ever gave her credit for. She is wearing a summer dress, white with a floral pattern. Her small waist and shoulders hugged by spaghetti straps suggest that she has kept the slender strength of her chaser days at school. Her long hair lights up as if on fire when the sun touches it briefly. Her arms look strong and her back is straight. The way she holds herself would impress even Narcissa Malfoy. 

But Draco is the one watching her, and he has other things on his mind. The little street leading to Madam Puddifoot’s is still too busy for what he has planned, with the last summer visitors lingering before they part from the picturesque little village of Hogsmeade. Thankfully it’s a lot quieter here in the summer, when no Hogwarts students roam the streets at weekends. Draco won’t have to wait much longer, crouched in the shadow of the house at the corner opposite to the tea shop.

He has come up with the perfect revenge. Potter can’t be hurt directly. Gryffindor that he is, he will suffer most when his sense of self-righteous justice is hurt. Potter certainly is convinced he deserves to be happy. And Draco, better than anyone, understands what it means when that chance is taken away. Father is merely a shell of his former self. Mother tries to keep it all together with minimal means. And Draco is forced to humble himself every day, with no sign of acceptance or acknowledgment for his efforts. After witnessing what happened to his family, Draco is an expert on how hope and happiness can be destroyed.

A light breeze sends Weasley’s hair flying into her face, and she is forced to sweep it back. The sun is gone now, hidden by the few clouds that have come up. The weather forecast predicted a storm in the late afternoon. This is good. It will drive people from the streets. Weasley fumbles around in her purse and retrieves a piece of paper for the fourth time since she came here. She reads it, then puts it back into her purse. 

_Meet me at Madam Puddifoot’s. Next Saturday, four p.m._ , says the letter. It’s half past four. Potter is late. Draco knew he would be, because he intercepted Potter’s letter. This is one of the advantages of having an eagle owl – they are huge. And menacing. Potter’s new owl never showed the same fierce loyalty as the white one he owned before the war. Draco took the chance to read and adjust the letter. So rather than Potter being late it is Weasley who is about an hour earlier than Potter’s original invitation suggested. And while Potter invited her to the Three Broomsticks, Draco directed her to that tacky tea shop. If Potter had more class, this certainly should have made her suspicious. It’s only too bad for her that class is something neither Potter nor Weasley would recognise if it clubbed them over their ignorant heads. Besides, Weasley is so smitten with Potter that she would meet him even in the Hog’s Head. But as it is, she is waiting for him in front of Madam Puddifoot’s, while he is going to look for her in the Broomsticks at the other side of the village in about thirty minutes. 

It would have been easy enough to kill her. Draco practised the Killing Curse during the war. But that would have meant sparing Potter. The death of a loved one will cause a sharp and seemingly unbearable pang of loss. But eventually, time heals all wounds and people move on. And Draco can’t allow Potter to heal and move on. He has this perfect plan, and for the plan to work, Potter has to be in constant misery. Draco did his research in the weeks after he was released from the hospital and discovered several memory charms. The weakest and most difficult will only take a specific memory, while the cruder ones will leave the victim a gibbering mess. Draco knows the Ministry takes extra care to train its Obliviators. But honestly, how hard can it be? He isn’t going to take all of Weasley’s memories. He isn’t that cruel. This is not about her. This is about Potter.

Inside the tea shop, a lonely couple is making doe-eyes at each other. Draco recognises them as Longbottom and Abbott. He can’t stop the sneer that builds on his face. It says a lot about Longbottom that he’s had to resort to dating a Hufflepuff. 

The sky is covered in grey clouds. The wind has grown stronger. Weasley shivers in her light dress and retrieves a shawl from her purse to wrap it around her shoulders. No one is left in the street. It is time. Potter will suffer the full impact of losing his girlfriend to oblivion. When Draco is done with her, she won’t know him anymore.

He raises his wand, aims it at Weasley and casts the _Obliviate_. A jet of red light hits Weasley directly in the chest, blasting her against the wall of the tea shop. She screams. The window behind her cracks. The next moment, Madam Puddifoot and her last two customers come rushing from the shop, their wands drawn. Weasley moves weakly on the ground. Her pretty dress is smudged with dirt and has slipped upwards to reveal most of her legs.

“Honey, what happened?” asks Madam Puddifoot. She kneels down and helps Weasley into a sitting position. 

Weasley shakes her head. Her eyes are huge, and her face is deadly white under a mass of tousled red hair. “I don’t know.” Her voice is shrill. 

Madam Puddifoot leans away from her and glances up and down the street. “Did you see who did this to you?”

Draco moves deeper into the shadow. But he has no problem to hear Weasley’s next words. “I don’t know. I don’t remember ... anything.”

Abbott bends down. “Ginny? Are you hurt?” She tries to smooth down Weasley’s crumpled dress, but Weasley flinches away from her.

“No! Don’t ... don’t touch me!” Weasley pushes Abbott’s hand away and pulls her dress over her knees.

“Ginny, it’s all right. Do you want us to call Harry?” 

Weasley moves her gaze from Abbott to Longbottom and back again. He eyes narrow, giving her face a guarded look. “Do we know each other?”

“I’m Hannah. And this is Neville.”

“You’re Hannah? And this is ... Neville?” She stares Longbottom in the face, then takes a deep breath in an effort to pull herself together. “I’m fine. I have to be fine. I just ... Have we met before?” 

Abbott and Longbottom exchange a look. “We went to school together. Don’t you recognise us?”

Weasley loses what little colour she has regained and shakes her head. Her movements are clearer though, less wobbly than a few minutes before. She sits up straighter and pushes her hair away from her face. “What is this place and what am I doing here?” Longbottom still has his wand at the ready, and it catches Weasley’s sight. “And what do you plan to do with that stick in your hand?”

 

**A Cross to Bear, a Shoulder to Cry On**

Potter is devastated. Three weeks after the attack, his girlfriend is still at the Janus Thickey Ward with no sign of improvement. She doesn’t recognise any of her friends or relatives, doesn’t remember any of her past and, worst of all, doesn’t know how to use her magic any longer. Rumour has it that she can’t even remember what happened the day before. Everything has to be explained to her again the next morning. Potter sat by her bedside for a whole week before the Ministry demanded his return. He still visits her every day. Exhaustion colours the skin under his eyes and his attention in the meetings is erratic at best. Auror Williamson has taken over as head of the Death Eater hunt. Potter refuses to talk about any of it, but a few outbursts make it clear that he thinks the attack on his girlfriend is connected to his own former role in the Death Eater investigations. He doesn’t just suffer the Obliviation of his girlfriend. Even better, he also thinks he is responsible.

Draco is at least a little sorry. He wanted to erase Weasley’s memories of Potter, not necessarily to reduce her to such a state. But what’s done is done, and he can’t let a bad conscience prevent him from taking the next step in his revenge. Watching Potter bleed misery for the last few weeks has been a good start. But now, Draco is ready to push it further. First gain Potter’s trust. Then initiate intimacy.

He watches Potter carefully. It’s a good thing that his closest friends are out of the country and Potter has no means to quickly send an owl or Floo call them. Potter may tend to occasional outbursts of anger, but he doesn’t really share how hard all of this is on him. And as the days go by, Ginny Weasley’s state is eating away at him. Potter is skin and bones, his hair unwashed and his clothes more rumpled than ever. He looks like he’s taken to sleeping in them. 

It’s the fourth week since the incident in Hogsmeade when Draco finally gets lucky with Potter. The corridors of level two are already abandoned for the weekend and he is on his way home when he hears a muffled noise from the Auror headquarters. Draco walks the rows of cubicles. When he has almost reached Potter’s cubicle, he gives off a warning cough and then steps around the bend. 

Potter is sitting at his desk, clutching a wet tissue. His eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are blotchy from crying. Seeing him like that makes Draco cringe inwardly. It’s disturbing to see their world’s hero in such a state of helpless despair. 

But then, it is also oddly satisfying. And the opportunity couldn’t be better.

Potter hasn’t uttered a word since Draco approached, and Draco clears his throat. He improvises, swiftly and steadily, as if steering his broom towards the Snitch.

“Potter, hi. Looks like we’re the only two left in the building. What do you say we head out and grab a late supper?”

Maybe no one has dared to offer Potter food. Maybe they all treated him like he was a bomb about to go off at any moment, not daring to shake him out of his misery. Or maybe it’s just Draco’s lucky day.

Potter rubs his hand over eyes and cheeks and runs his fingers through his hair. And then, he nods. “Yes,” he says, “I’d like that.”

***

Once they are back to talking without Potter going into _Death Eater!_ mode whenever he sees Draco, it’s actually easy to gain his confidence. Draco listens to Potter’s endless worry over the Weasley girl and his equally endless self-reproaches. He listens and nods and steadily worms his way into Potter’s heart. And Potter lets him, grateful for what he assumes is Draco’s true, unselfish support.

All Potter needed was someone to tell him when to eat and sleep, and gently confirm his increasing self-hatred. It’s so simple that it’s brilliant, and Draco finally holds all the cards. He has Potter’s trust and friendship, like he wanted ages ago when he first boarded the Hogwarts Express. Father, if he knew, would be proud.

It’s another night in the pub nearby Draco’s flat. The clientele is gay but since Draco is a regular and Potter looks nothing like his famous self from the various Ministry posters, no one glances their way twice. The location was easy enough to use as a hint to Potter about Draco’s sexual inclination. Draco was counting on Potter’s sense of doing the right thing when he brought him here for the first time. And of course, Potter hasn’t uttered a single derogatory word ever since. Draco has yet to invite Potter to come home with him. He is still wary of moving too fast with his plan and raising Potter’s suspicions. When Potter finally falls into Draco’s arms, he has to believe that he wanted it all along.

Potter drains his glass and turns around to gesture to the bartender. 

Draco shakes his head and halts Potter’s movement. “Forget it, man. They won’t give you another round. You’ve had enough.”

“Haven’t.” Potter glares at him, but it’s without any real heat. 

Draco shrugs. “It’s not my meeting that’s going to be ruined tomorrow.”

“’s not _my_ meeting anymore either.” Potter snorts. “See if I care.”

“I know for a fact that you do. Those bastards are still free, and I know you want to see them punished.”

For a moment, Potter’s face is all grim determination, but then the familiar desperation takes over, hunching his shoulders forward. “She’s not coming back,” he tells his empty glass.

Potter is particularly whiny tonight. Draco decides to push his luck. “You must get lonely, with her being gone.” He wraps his hand around his own glass, daringly close to Potter’s.

Potter stares into his glass. “I miss her so much.” 

“I know. I can’t begin to imagine ...” Draco lets his voice trail off. Saying more might ruin the mood.

Potter whips up his head. “She was waiting for me, Draco. She went to Hogsmeade because I asked her. I just can’t think what she was doing at Madam Puddifoot’s. She hated that place.”

“I ... I guess we’ll never know for sure.”

Potter’s shoulders shake. “I was going to ... I was going to propose that night. I had it all planned. Something special.”

Imagine that. The Three Broomsticks as the place to propose to your future wife. Can Potter get any more plebeian? 

“Special.” Draco hopes Potter will take his minimalist answer as an understanding encouragement. If things continue to move at the speed of glaciers receding, it might be Christmas before Draco gets to fuck Potter into a mattress.

“She must have known. She wore a new dress, did you know?”

 _A summer dress, white with a floral pattern and spaghetti straps. A matching shawl._ Beautiful indeed.

Potter’s head snaps up. He fixes Draco with narrowed eyes. “What did you just say?”

“Me? Nothing. Why?”

“Yes, you did. You said _white, floral, with straps_.” Potter pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. “How did you know? It was a brand-new dress!” 

The bartender starts to take notice of the ruckus. Potter fumbles in the pocket of his robes. “How did you know?”

Draco stands, his movements slow and measured. “I know nothing.”

Potter shakes his head. “Yes, yes, you do. You knew about her dress. How did you know what Ginny’s dress looked like?” His voice is incredibly clear for an inebriated man. And he has finally managed to retrieve his wand from his robes.

Maybe the situation can still be saved. Draco puts a hand on Potter’s wand arm. “Harry, calm down. You’re drunk; you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Potter snatches his arm away and shoves at Draco. “Don’t touch me. I know exactly what I’m doing. And I know that you ... you did it. You attacked Ginny!” 

He whips his wand at Draco. “Stupefy!”

It’s only the speed of his Apparition that saves Draco from getting stunned on the spot.

***

Potter must have put a tracking spell on him. Every time Draco Apparates, Potter immediately follows. There’s no stopping him and no reasoning with him either. And it’s not for lack of trying.

“Potter, we have to talk!”

CRACK!

“No! Don’t!”

CRACK!

“Expelliarm--!”

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

It’s no use; Draco has to pick a place and face Potter. Probably it’s no coincidence that he Apparates to the meadow in the middle of Scotland where they first duelled with each other only a few months back.

But now, there is nothing friendly about their encounter. They are evenly matched and Draco uses all the tricks Potter taught him. Potter is white-faced with anger, and he mocks even the slightest mistake Draco makes, throwing hex after hex at him. 

“I’ll drag you in front of the Wizengamot. Stupefy!”

Draco flings a _Protego_ to counter Potter’s attack. 

“This time, you won’t escape justice like you did after the war. I shouldn’t have spoken for you then. You ... Incarcerous! ... will pay for what you did to Ginny!”

“Expelliarmus! You’d have to catch me first, Potter.”

“I will! I know you, Malfoy. You never win! You’re pathetic.”

It is then that Draco snaps. “You’re the one who’s pathetic, pining for a dirty Weasel. You could have had me, but you chose her. It’s your fault she’s a gibbering mess.”

Potter’s face transforms. One second it’s a mass of swollen hatred, the next second it’s filled with an understanding so full of pity that Draco wishes he’d never seen the emotion on Potter’s face. 

“You wanted me? And you thought, with Ginny out of the way, that you’d finally get you chance?”

It sounds ridiculous and pathetic. It’s too personal for either of them to back down. Talking or casting defensive hexes won’t get Draco anywhere. Potter is still tipsy, but the he is sobering up with every minute that passes and the precision of his curses increases accordingly. Draco is running out of time.

He has cast the Curse before. He can do it again. He tortured Rowle and Dolohov during the war, under Voldemort’s orders. He almost used it on Potter, but Potter sliced him up instead. This time is going to be different.

Potter looks at him, brows drawn together in fierce determination. “Come on, Malfoy! Give me your best shot, so I can end it.”

Pathetic Potter. Even now, he can only attack in defence. 

Draco raises his wand, careful not to give Potter any hints about what hex he’s going to use.

Potter just stands there, his arms spread in a wide invitation. “It’s like Voldemort all over again, and he never got it right either.” And then Potter laughs, half-mad with grief and blind with hatred, his head thrown back in a high arch that shows his Adam’s apple. It’s almost like he wants Draco to hit him first. 

“Crucio!” The curse explodes from Draco’s wand and Potter for once isn’t fast enough to protect himself. A jet of blinding light hits him and he crumples to the ground, thrashing, still clutching at his wand. But he can’t throw a hex back at Draco, and Draco uses all his power to hold the Cruciatus until Potter’s thrashing is reduced to a mere twitching and his voice is rough from screaming. 

Draco lowers his wand and walks up to his enemy. Potter lies on his back and he stares into the sky, unblinking. His face is wet with tears and his lips are bitten through. Draco bends down and lightly touches Potter’s shoulder. The skin is fever-hot and even that light touch elicits a moan from Potter, who weakly tries to pull away from Draco’s investigating fingers. 

“Hush, Potter. It’s all right.” Draco closes his hand around Potter’s shoulder.

Potter whimpers. Draco moves his hand down Potter’s arm and Potter whimpers again.

“I’ve got you, Potter. It’s all right. I won’t use it again, as long as you promise to be good.”

 

**Forever Secret, Forever Safe**

This morning, there was the first frost on the grass. When Potter stepped on it, it made a crackling noise, like Christmas tinsel. Potter shuddered and quickly retreated into the house. Sudden changes in the now-familiar setting of the Malfoy cottage, the wide sky over the French countryside, the calls of foreign birds – Potter scares easily these days. The first months of breaking him in have been rough, and he still bears the marks on his skin.

Now, in the early afternoon, Potter sits in his favourite armchair by the fireplace, with a blanket wrapped around his legs and feet. His hands move restlessly in his lap, the right one slowly opening and closing in the unconscious search for a wand. It is time for his potions. They keep him calm. Amortentia every other day even keeps him happy. 

Draco stands and walks over to the medicine cabinet, retrieves several bottles and pours the appropriate amount into small glasses, five altogether. He puts the bottles away and places the glasses on a tray, caries them over to Potter.

“Harry?” 

It is important to talk to Potter in low tones, and always call him ‘Harry’. After Potter finally cracked, Draco made the mistake of calling him by his last name, and had to deal with Potter screaming for hours on end, until he had no voice left. Draco is a fast learner, so he never calls Potter anything other than ‘Harry’. The name ‘Potter’ is reserved for a phantom that once was the hero of the wizarding world, a phantom that vanished one day without a trace. Now all that’s left is ‘Harry’, and he is no hero. He is just a young man, lost and in need of a friend. 

Draco is more than happy to be that friend.

“It’s time for your potions.”

Potter looks up. His expression is warm and peaceful, if maybe a little dull. Draco swallows quickly and sets down his tray.

Potter sees the glasses and makes a face. “Really? Again? They taste so nasty.”

Draco crouches down besides the armchair, takes the first glass and firmly presses it into Potter’s hand. “You need them.”

“I know. I’ve been sick, and you only want me to get better.” Potter’s voice is small and child-like.

“I’ve added a spoonful of honey to make them sweeter.” It isn’t true, but Potter doesn’t know that. 

Potter takes the glass to his lips and downs the content in one quick swallow, then licks his lips and reaches for the next glass.

Draco catches the first one before it slips from Potter’s eager hands. “Hush, Harry, slow down. No one’s taking them away from you.”

A frown clouds Potter’s face for a moment before he lights up again. “That’s because you wouldn’t let them!”

“That’s right. I won’t let them.”

“You keep me safe.” Potter lets out a contented sigh and snuggles deeper into the armchair.

Draco moves his head close to Potter’s until their foreheads touch. “You’re safe with me. No one will ever find you here.” He places his hands on Potter’s bony shoulders and squeezes them lightly. A glow of happiness spreads in his chest, warming him from the inside. “I’ll keep you secret. Forever.”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the round 8 of H/D LDWS at slythindor100. The prompts were: Accio, Bat-Bogey Hex, Levicorpus, Draught of Living Death, Skele-Gro, Obliviate, Cruciatus Curse, Fidelius Charm. So I wrote a story in eight parts. The title is made from the first letters of each of the eight spells/curses/potions of the promt series.
> 
> First posted at Horror Fest at hp_darkarts. Thanks to writcraft for letting me play last minute! :-)
> 
> Thank you to vaysh11 and diabolica for beta reading and to nathaniel_hp for our inspirational discussions.


End file.
